


Professional Courtesies

by greerwatson



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:55:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22597414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greerwatson/pseuds/greerwatson
Summary: Newly appointed company clerk, Klinger sells off his wardrobe of women's garb.
Relationships: Sidney Freedman & Father Francis Mulcahy
Kudos: 26
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	Professional Courtesies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [not_laurence](https://archiveofourown.org/users/not_laurence/gifts).



“Now Klinger’s an interesting case,” said Sidney Freedman as he took the mug of coffee from Father Mulcahy. He sat back, holding it in both hands, and blew on it gently.

“He’s more than just a ‘case’,” said the priest in gentle remonstration as he poured hot water over the instant coffee in his own mug. He sat down, as the other man took his first sip. “I know, I know—” He waved aside any protests. “—you can’t help but talk that way … in your profession.” This elicited a smile, and Mulcahy chuckled. “I rise like a fish to the bait, don’t I?”

Freedman twinkled back; and Mulcahy laughed loudly. “But you were saying about Klinger," he prompted.

“Well, consider the latest developments.” Freedman waved one hand in the direction of the main compound of the camp. On his way to the Padre’s tent, he’d passed the pop-up market stall with its racks of ladies’ garments.

“Ah, yes.” Mulcahy nodded. “I see what you mean.” He hesitated, then asked, “Is that sweet enough? Would you like more sugar?”

“No, no,” Freedman assured him. “Got to watch my waistline.” Being far from fat, he looked a tad smug as he patted his midriff; and Mulcahy chuckled again. The psychiatrist took a deeper gulp of his coffee and continued, in a leisurely fashion. “It’s fascinating, really. Every time I come here, for whatever reason, I look forward to seeing his latest finagle. And,” he added dryly, “the reaction to it.” He took another sip. “ _Especially_ the reaction to it. Frank Burns, oy vey!” He rolled his eyes. “The man took it all so seriously. Unlike most of you.”

“Well,” said Mulcahy comfortably, “we knew the _casus belli_ , so to speak. Some even agreed—in principle if not in practice. How many are here by choice, after all?”

“It was Henry Blake who called me in for the first consult. That was….” Freedman paused. “Early summer of ’51, if I recall correctly.”

A shadow passed over Mulcahy’s face. “Yes, about then.” He shook his head. “Such a loss … a tragic loss.” He crossed himself almost automatically. Then, with a little self-deprecating smile, he added, “Not that _all_ of those who have died are not tragic losses, of course, whoever they are; but one feels it more when it’s one of your own.”

“It’s only natural,” said Freedman gently.

“He was just on his way home, too. Somehow that makes it worse.”

“About to escape this madness,” agreed Freedman. He raised his mug in salute. “Here’s to Henry Blake, then—and all those who escape madness only by falling victim to it.”

“Amen,” said Mulcahy. They drank to it; and then, gesturing to the stove, he added, “May I offer you a refill?”

Freedman shook his head. “I’d never get to sleep.” He smiled, adding, “The other great escape from this war, sleep. As long as you don’t dream.”

“Or dream of home.”

“Which brings us back to Klinger.” Freedman leaned back, but did not relax. “Whose one wish since arriving in this madhouse has been to go home. By any means he can—” He waggled his eyebrows meaningfully. “— _dream_ up. Well,” and he turned suddenly serious, “until now.”

“I’m sure he still wants to leave Korea. Which of us doesn’t?”

“And that?” asked Freedman meaningfully, pointing towards the door—no, _beyond_ the door, to the compound where the clothing sale was still ongoing. “How do you explain that?” It was, of course, a remarkable collection; and the nurses were still picking over the dresses on offer, checking to see what could be remade into a more suitable size. There were also bags, beads, and boas. Other things, such as shoes and gloves, were far too large for any of the women at the 4077th however adroit with their needle. Word had travelled, however; and a couple of local peddlers had come to bargain for the things left over.

“Well, now that he’s company clerk, he has to sleep in the office,” said Mulcahy, in tones of one pointing out the obvious. “He no longer has his own tent.”

“Oh that tent!” Freedman shook his head. “Officers have to share the Swamp; but an orderly has his own tent!” With scarcely a pause, he added, “I suppose the enlisted men wanted him out of their quarters.”

“There was practically a delegation,” said Mulcahy, with a nod. “If it had only been Major Burns and Major Houlihan, I doubt if Colonel Blake would have bothered. But when Zale and Rizzo and the others started muttering about … well, what _they_ thought at first you can probably imagine.” Freedman nodded. “And, for that matter, what they thought others would imagine. Even when they realized it was basically just a ploy to get out of the army—”

Freedman chortled. “It’s got whiskers on it! The very first time I examined him, I knew what he was up to. Blake knew. Everyone knew.”

“Still,” Mulcahy pointed out, “I’m sure the enlisted men resented it … his trying to cheat his way back home when they all had to stay. Giving Klinger his own tent was a small price, really. Anything for an easy life, that was Henry Blake.” He smiled fondly.

Freeman frowned slightly. “For morale, you mean?” At Mulcahy's nod, he added, “And Klinger’s own morale? How was that affected? I mean, I’ve heard of more exploits than I ever actually saw; but _you_ are Padre-on-the-spot and see all.”

Mulcahy almost blushed.

“How long do you think it took before he realized that none of his antics was going to get him back to Toledo?”

“From the start?” Mulcahy hazarded. “He has hopes, of course, every time some top brass comes by. He’s always put on his best for them—which is to say he does his worst. I’ve always feared he’ll talk himself into the stockade. He’s pushed the limit more than once. Especially when it comes to people who don’t know him the way we all do. When it leaves the camp, that is—which is to say when _he_ leaves the camp.” He paused, with a thoughtful look in his eye. “I dare say he had real hopes of persuading _you_ , at least that first time you were called in to see him. But Klinger’s no fool. He certainly figured out pretty quickly that Colonel Blake was not going to give him his Section Eight, nor Colonel Potter, either. I’m sure of that. Or,” Mulcahy guessed, “are you asking why he never gave up?”

“Pure stubbornness?” ventured Freedman.

“ _And_ honesty, don’t forget that.”

Freedman looked at him quizzically, and Mulcahy laughed. “Oh, yes, I know. But underneath all that is a strong _personal_ honesty. He wants to go home; he’s not going to lie about it.”

“It’s courageous, in a way,” Freedman said thoughtfully. “Prancing around in those outrageous outfits.”

“But you have to understand—I think, of all of us, _you_ must understand better than anyone!—once someone has set their heart on something to such an … an _intense_ degree, well … once you’ve started, it’s very hard to stop. It’s not just you any more. It’s everyone else.”

“You mean people sort of egg him on?”

“They have their expectations,” Mulcahy admitted.

“It becomes a sort of running gag.”

After a reluctant pause, Mulcahy said, “For most of the camp, yes. I think you can say so.”

“And for Klinger?”

Mulcahy hesitated, bit his lip, and shoved his glasses back up his nose.

Freedman waited.

Mulcahy hesitated, uncertainly. “I don’t like to sound rude,” he proffered weakly.

“Candid, then.” Freedman sat forward, elbows on knees, earnestly willing the other to answer.

Unhappily, the priest set aside his coffee, barely half drunk. After a pause, he murmured, “No one likes to be seen as the butt of jokes. On the other hand, he courts comment.”

Freedman nodded thoughtfully. He scratched his nose. “A sense of the ridiculous?” he suggested.

“Well,” Mulcahy said tentatively, “that’s where things start to sound rude.”

“If I’m trespassing on some secret, professionally speaking…?”

“No, no!” said the priest quickly. “Nothing like that. No, it’s just that—every time he shaves, the mirror must tell him what everyone else sees. A sense of the ridiculous? But he takes it seriously, doesn’t he? And that’s part of the joke, you might say. So people play up to it; and _they_ act as though it’s real. And he doubles down. You should hear him—maybe you have heard him?—talk about style and fashion, and what … mmm … ‘accessories’ the women call them. His choice of handbag and what earrings to wear, and that sort of thing.” He trailed off, with a look of appeal.

“Call it a hobby, perhaps?”

Mulcahy nodded, a little tentatively.

“A hobby that has entertained _him_ as well as everyone else. At least for a while. And now?” Once again, Freedman gestured towards the ongoing sale in the compound.

“Well, he can’t wear dresses if he’s company clerk,” said Mulcahy again, a little amused. “I think we all know that, even Klinger.”

“Maybe especially Klinger?" suggested Freedman, and waited, eyebrow cocked, rubbing his chin with his index finger; but there was no response. Finally, he prompted, “So, why is he company clerk?”

“Because Radar went home!”

“And quite an event you all made of it, too,” said Freedman, nodding. (“Well, we tried,” murmured the priest.) “Not that I’m objecting, you understand. His uncle dead, the family farm … it’s just the sort of situation that ‘hardship discharges’ were invented for. No, I meant … if the condition for Klinger replacing Radar is giving up his hobby, then why…?” He raised an interrogative brow.

“He wouldn’t let Radar down,” said Mulcahy defensively. “Nor the Colonel, for that matter.”

“And new personnel never rotate in?” said Freedman dryly. “Temporary assignment, sure. But that—” and he gave another quick thumb to the sale outside “—that’s pretty permanent to my eyes.” He cocked his head, and waited again for a comment.


End file.
